


The Perks of Being Human

by emynii, ObliObla



Series: Nia & Obli's Whumptober 2019 [9]
Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Gen, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Post-Canon, Stars, Whumptober 2019, Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-09
Updated: 2019-10-09
Packaged: 2020-11-28 11:43:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20966009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emynii/pseuds/emynii, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObliObla/pseuds/ObliObla
Summary: Lucifer could count the links on the chain in what he had given up. But it was all worth it.Wasn't it?For the Whumptober prompt: shackled





	The Perks of Being Human

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to [RootPatterson](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RootPatterson/pseuds/RootPatterson) for helping us wrangle this into shape!
> 
> Additional warnings are in the end notes.

Lucifer wrought such light that all of Creation was brightened by it, drawn from his own luster. But they were stars made on the authority of his Father, and, when he thought to ascend above His seat, when he tried to uplift himself into the stars that he himself created, that light was torn from him.

And as he fell, bound in adamantine chains, he defied his stars. Forged a manacle beneath his skin from the light he had once brought. Never again would he craft fire into spheres and cast them into the sky.

And so the first link formed.

Eons later—as time moved slowly down in the dark—when humanity finally stood apart from the beasts, he abandoned what fire he had left to Hell. To a place better suited for its wrath and for its blatancy. Even he, the prideful one, the drama queen of the damned, endeavored to be a bit more subtle than that. Though he missed its heat, spreading through his veins like something less than starlight but so much more than all that suffocating ash, it was worthwhile when he travelled among the humans that they not be afraid. 

And when small encampments turned to settlement, he tempered himself further. Humans had short lives but their memory was long. He began to enjoy these creatures that did not look upon him with hatred or terror or awe—at least, not unless he desired it—but as if he might be one of them. It was not such a hardship to bear to walk among them without wings.

And two links formed, one crafted from feathers, one from flame.

His throne was its own shackle—reigning in Hell was better, perhaps, than serving in Heaven, but, infernal or celestial, servitude was servitude. The trips to Earth kept him sane, mostly, but so many eons down in the dark made him wonder, sometimes, if he was _in _Hell or if Hell lay within him.

Amenadiel thought him reckless. Claimed he spread his divinity with impunity over the weaker minds of humanity—and other things beside. And there was truth to that—he wouldn’t lie. He _didn’t _lie. At first they were little more than playthings, though there were always those that seemed, when they looked at him, to see something beyond the masks he wore. And he’d always preferred the beautiful, the talented, and the free.

But even then, he was careful, for certain definitions of the word.

When Amenadiel made his ill-planned deal, when he named him _evil_, Lucifer began to consider, as he had often considered, in his moments of silence and his moments of rage. He had spent so long trying to please a Father who had never cared—a chain of his own making in and of itself—but now it all seemed so pointless. And when he saw an opportunity, he seized it.

Kneeling on that beach while Mazikeen severed his wings, he felt those feathery shackles fall away, tasting true freedom for the first time in eons.

But two more links were added to the chain.

To draw the humans’ desires was never a problem; if they remembered his influence at all, it simply left them unsettled. He enjoyed being with them, yet apart from them. Savored the distance his less human-like qualities inspired. Of course, to see that lesser mask Hell had granted him was to look upon the face of madness itself, but propriety went by the wayside when there was punishment to be done.

But this detective… she was immune.

And when he stripped himself of his vestments before her, he found himself stripped of far more. No one had ever truly noticed the scars, those most visible links of the chain that bound him, but she laid them bare..

Under her attempted touch, he felt them rattle.

He knew, of course, what it was to fall, and that pain would never truly be forgotten. But when his leg was pierced by a human bullet, the mortal pain he felt was exquisite, sweeter than nectar and holier than any hymn ever sung by celestial choirs.

He did not so much accept this link as cling to it, to the glorious rush of mortality, though when he discovered its source, fear pulsed through him in a way it never had before. And yet he couldn’t bring himself to stay away. Not for long.

He had prided himself on his independence, on his self-direction, since well before the fall. But now he was a follower, and he followed a human. He knew he could not coerce her, and, soon, he felt no desire to. He was happy, almost _content _to take her lead.

The desire for freedom—which he had cast above all things; the desire that led even to the fall—began, slowly, to fade in light of this new want, this new need. And this link was warm; he was almost comforted by its weight.

When the Pentecostal coin burned—in a twice-damned deal he knew he’d make again, if he had to—he forsook the subtle manipulation of objects, finding other things to occupy his hands instead. These new humans he had made his own—that had made _him _their own—weren’t like the others. They were not transient like the club-goers, the conquests, the desperate looking for a deal. Nor were they employees, selected to neither notice nor care. 

Another thread of independence died as another link formed, and he hardly noticed.

He found quieter ways to utilize his skills. The unlocking of doors and, of course, _turning things on_ were useful to the detective, and so they remained. His innate attraction, once used wantonly, turned strange. Unwanted. What was the point of it, after all, if it had no sway over the attentions he truly desired?

The chain was growing heavier.

The links, less of adamant than of his own flesh and blood, looped and twisted around his skin, bearing him down into a mundane darkness that became ever more familiar. The wings returned, but they were nothing more than iron weights, dragging him even further into the depths.

Then a knife struck true, a darkness he had tried desperately to hide was exposed, and he was alone.

And there, out of the depths, he found a freedom he had forgotten he ever had, but it was specious. He told himself he was free, again, but the chains only tightened. They may have been leather, but they bound him just as well as the feathers had.

He began to forget which links he formed himself and which were forced upon him. It hardly mattered, he reckoned, when they both held so tight and so fast and so true.

But he was still bound—by ties of family, by ties of _love_—and so he exchanged one set of bindings for another. There was power, then, but power gone stale. And the shackles of iron that again held him fast to the throne were just as strong as any other.

And then there was freedom, again. Was a beach, was a breath of salt-breeze, was the starlight on his skin. There was a kiss, was a promise. To be something smaller than he was. To be something _greater_ than he was.

He knew, now, that he created his own self. And so he made a choice—as he was always forced to make—but this didn’t feel anything like sacrifice.

_Human_. The word was strange on his tongue, and he wasn’t certain he could achieve it, but he could try.

And another link formed. But he had lived so long in chains—what was another ring when it was intertwined with such glory?

Since humanity crawled down from their trees, he had made deals with them. Never for souls, of course, but everything under the sun he traded and bartered, acquired and delivered. And he had wielded such power over them, even without drawing upon their desires.

The thought of it filled him with dread, now. The thought of abandoning it filled him with trepidation.

But he _could _be human, couldn’t he? He had no need for such things when he had all he ever wanted. There was nothing else to strive for. He was finally, _finally _content.

Lux began to make him more tired than anything else. He’d often, before, only slept a few hours a week, but now he felt the weariness of it in his bones. The endless crowds only exhausted him; the drugs still numbed him, but surely there was nothing that needed to be numbed. Even the piano didn’t bring him the joys it used to.

Surrounded by his family, it all seemed so pointless, and though Chloe insisted he didn't have to give all those things up to live a human life, he was certain a clean break would be easier. There were better joys to find, simpler domestic pleasures to revel in as he had once revelled in grander things. But these never left him feeling hollow.

He slept better at night, lying beside her, than he ever had after another orgy, another pill; and, besides, he was beginning to enjoy Beatrice’s somewhat overly exuberant hugs. The bindings didn’t pull so much anymore, but wrapped around him as her enthusiastic embraces did. Even if he stopped making pancakes piled high with syrup and chocolate chips and whipped cream and instead fixed more practical meals. 

It was better for her, he was certain; and it was good for him too.

Punishment had been his purpose for so long he felt bereft without it, for a time. But he had to admit they were both getting a little too old to chase criminals, and Lieutenant Decker had no need for a consultant when her star rose and desk work finally beckoned.

This second retirement contained far fewer orgies and ecstasy parties, but he enjoyed his ‘kiss the cook’ apron and handing Chloe a glass of wine at the end of a long day, offering to massage her aching feet so long as his own hands were without pain.

And though something deep within raged, a feral creature snapping its jaws at its captors even as the heavy iron was bolted to the ground and the beast was made to kneel, he felt nothing but gratitude.

When the first gray hairs came, he found only joy in them. Even when the beard he started letting grow a little longer was shot through with white, these new links brought nothing but warmth.

He had grown rather used to the comforts of captivity.

He found himself mellower, less prone to explosive outbursts, to deep, depressive moods. The therapy seemed to be working, and, one day, he decided he no longer needed it. He dismissed Linda’s concerned look as he thanked her for all her help. She would always worry, but he was fine. _More _than fine.

He was, perhaps for the first time in his life, truly happy.

He never thought he would enjoy watching imperfections crawl over his skin, but much of his vanity had been lost to the newfound freedom of care, of affection, of _love_. Besides, wrinkles were so much kinder won than scars.

And he was not left behind, not left alone, but pressed onward into such an undiscovered country, hand in hand with the notion of love, leaving all else behind him. He needed nothing else. He _wanted_ nothing else.

And, years later, when he stood vigil at the bedside of the only person he had left—the rest had long since died or moved away—batting away her hands as they scratched at his too solid, too mortal flesh in the depths of her mind’s confusion, he told himself, again, that he wanted this.

He wanted the ache in his bones when the rains came. He wanted the weariness that never seemed to diminish. He desired nothing more than every indignity of a body leaving vitality behind.

And he wanted _this_, wanted Chloe, frame frail with illness, screaming for her long-dead mother and father because she no longer remembered his name.

The chain tightened a little more, and he couldn’t breathe.

He was told to leave, to go home by people whose voices and faces blurred in the stillness before grief. His body was mortal, Trixie said, when she finally came. He couldn’t remain by her side always.

But wasn’t that the point, all those years ago?

She slept, now. It was the only time she was not besieged by visions that tortured her as efficiently as any Hell-loop. But, still, she was restless. And he sat by her bedside, wanting desperately to take her hand, knowing that only demons came with his touch.

He wondered if he was _hanging _by those chains he’d almost forgotten, drawn tight around his neck so he may feel the metal, cold against his throat. But where lay the gallows?

When her gaze fixed and her flesh turned cold, a terrible feeling of relief washed over him. Chloe was in Heaven, bathed in the purity of its light. And he was practically human, wasn’t he?

Sometimes he wished he could join her sooner, but he resolved himself to wait out the years allotted to him. He would accept his judgement, and though he had done much wrong, he’d begun to understand there may be something to this thing called faith.

He didn’t feel so tired anymore—he silenced the uncharitable thought that she had been exhausting him, though he knew it to be true. His hair was a little less gray than it had been, and his joints ached a little less. He found himself with too much time on his hands. The police department, such as it was, was glad to have his services again, even as simply a consultant.

It was easier to go back to some of his old habits—to the cigarettes, to rather more than a glass of wine with dinner—and easier still to return to Lux, though it was little more than piano bar, now. To the joy of the piano when he had so little left, to the exuberance of the crowds, making him feel young. He shorn his beard shorter, began dressing only in suits as he once had. And _her _bed was even colder than the one in the penthouse. People came to him, as they used to, asking for deals. He had given them up years ago, but what harm could it do? He had more money than he knew what to do with.

The shackles began loosening; he hardly noticed.

Those little powers he had abandoned were an excellent distraction—and he would take anything to avoid the dreams of Chloe, eyes fearful, no longer knowing who he was—and it was much like riding a bicycle to relearn them. They settled over him with a comforting warmth. 

And he found a freedom there he had forgotten he ever had, and it was true.

One day, he was sitting on one of his Italian leather couches, sipping whiskey from fine crystal. It wouldn’t be long now, he thought. He glanced at the ceiling, seeing only himself reflected in the shiny, black surface. Not long now.

But too long.

Those little doubts that always whispered in the corners of his mind that he’d managed to ignore for so very long were growing louder. He stood and strode to the balcony, glancing up at a sky flattened by light pollution. There were no stars. “What’s taking so long?” he asked, almost, softly, but he remembered when he used to rage at the heavens. When he had the power to change something beyond his little human life.

“Why won’t you take me?” He was yelling, now, feeling a fire in his blood he’d almost forgotten. His hand tightened reflexively against his glass, and it shattered.

But there was no blood.

He blinked at his unblemished fingers, then stooped, picking up one of the larger shards. He pressed it, ruthlessly, against his palm.

Nothing.

He dropped the fragment. “No,” he breathed. 

A distant echo of thunder rolled over him and it began to rain, every drop mocking him for his bones would not ache

“No,” he said, a little louder.

With a terrible whoosh his wings emerged, splaying out behind him. They shone with unnatural, holy light, and tears sprang to his eyes.

_“No!”_

He was _human_. He was no devil. Was no angel. He wasn’t! He turned away from the balcony, rushing inside, away from the glory of the heavens. There were crashes as his wings knocked things from tables, scraped against couches. But it couldn’t be true; it couldn’t be _real._ He would be fine as long as he—

He froze, staring into the mirror above the bar; scars and raw flesh crept over his face, down past his collar, until there was a monster standing before him he thought he’d never have to see again.

The chain burst, and there was only the beast. Of course anger had been the first chink in the armor, the final link to bust open and sever the chain. Pride had long directed his actions, but it was wrath that forced his hand.

_Become wrath,_ he had yelled once. _Fall as I did._

Wrath came before destruction, and wrath before the fall. And he _was _falling.

The fundamental truth of himself—the poison that had rotted him from the inside since even before he fell—was all he had left. The only thing he’d ever truly had faith in, that he would not simply accept his lot but would ascend above the heights of stars to seize more than the universe has seen fit to grant him. That he would always look for another way.

But there was no other way.

Links burst along the chain, bringing with them power, freedom, servitude, fire. But that final link, that manacle of adamant that marked his fall and his destruction, that cast fire into the hearts of stars, held firm, binding him to the darkness. And he was brought down to Hell—the Hell that had always dwelled within him—for within him his own Hell he would always bring.

And he landed, so very far from the stars he'd once wrought to bring light to endless night.

**Author's Note:**

> Additional warnings: Depiction of dementia


End file.
